The Rise of the Reinbeck Hero
by Tammy456
Summary: Set after "The Reinbeck Falls " John is struggling with everyday life without his friend Sherlock but when a new killer comes into town and sets his eyes on the ex-companion of The Reinbeck Hero , who will save him?


Chapter 1 – London Docks

Greg LeStrade looked at the body. It was twisted. Wrapped around the pillar like a ribbon around a present. The man (what was left of him), was as pale as a vampire's drained victim and his face was decorated in purple bruises; his chest bar for the entire world to see, the word "SINNER" carved into his skin. The skin was kept perfectly untouched around the word "SINNER". LeStrade couldn't help thinking if religion was a key factor.

But he couldn't get around that each body was found on a Thursday. What was so special about Thursday? What was with the word "SINNER" on the bodies? He just couldn't figure it out. But he definitely knew someone who could have.

Chapter 2 – 221B Baker Street

"Please John, don't leave, I don't know what to do with all his things." cried .

"Just box it up, send some stuff to Mycroft … I don't care"

Watson did care but he couldn't stand it anymore, he couldn't stay, it would kill him if he stayed another night. He didn't want to leave, that would hurt too much. So much had happened here: he had lived here with his friend for two years. If he left, part of him would die, well, all of him would , his life was here , this was where it began. This was his home.

But he couldn't be in it. There were just too many memories. Too many memories of Sherlock Holmes, his best friend.

"You can't just leave, where will you go?" questioned .

"A hotel, only for a few nights … I just need some time away from here."

"Are you coming back?"

Watson made for stairs, heading out, a duffel bag in his right hand. He looked back at his home: the leather chairs and sofas scarred with memories, the walls covered in dents from when Sherlock had casually shot at it and the bookcases streaming with beautiful leather-bound books which had been used until they bore the scars of age. He held back tears and answered his old, kindly landlady, "I don't know".

With that vacated the flat and stepped onto the pavement, but his path was blocked by the jet black car of .

Chapter 3 – ' Car

Watson climbed into the car , preferring this method rather than his usual way of being knocked out. As he shut the door and made himself comfortable in the leather seats, he noticed that someone was in the back of the car with him. It wasn't his usual companion, Anthea , who on several occasions had sat with him in complete silence and darkness , waiting for the impending doom of ' requests ; it was someone completely unexpected , it was the man himself … Holmes.

Watson's eyes widened in surprise.

"Oh, by now I would have thought that surprise meetings wouldn't phase you in the slightest." Unlike his brother, Mycroft Holmes had a very dark and seductive manner which was only amplified by his "minor" position in the British Government and his overwhelming need to be a very dark and mysterious man.

"Well, it's just surprising not to see my usual travelling companion. I love our little chats, where might be the lovely Anthea? He asked sarcastically.

"Well, let's just say … she took a little holiday?" Mycroft stared at Watson blankly.

Watson noticed the subtext in Mycroft's answer and didn't bother to respond, he knew not to question Mycroft's methods (he didn't want to end up like any of his employees).

"Some new information has come to me."

"About what?" Watson asked impatiently.

"About my brother." Watson's heart nearly stopped. It was very rare to hear brotherly love or concern from since in all the time Watson had known him and Sherlock, the "Holmes Boys" had resented eachother with every fibre of their being. On top of that Watson found it excruciatingly painful to talk about Sherlock with Mycroft; because while Jim Moriaty had an obsession with Sherlock, Sherlock's own brother had given Moriaty every detail of Sherlock's life, which could be used to crumble his world around him, and eventually end his life.

"Oh really?" Watson answered

"Yes, it turns out had an inside worker in the police department, possibly two"

"What's this got to do with me?"

"I thought you would like to find out who they are." (Basically translated to – find out for me because I'm too important to get the people, who along with me helped kill my little brother)

Watson didn't even need to think of his response, he'd had an answer to a query like that for weeks. "No , you can do it yourself" He let that sink in. "I stopped detective work when you , the papers and the police killed my best friend." Mycroft said nothing, he was stunned. "Can you let me out please?"

"Yes" Mycroft answered in his seductive voice, still with a look of surprise on his face.

The car pulled to a halt. Watson climbed out, with his duffel bag in his hand. As he closed the door, he realised had driven him to his hotel; to think of it Mycroft Holmes wasn't too gruesome for a psycho maniacal brother killing – sociopath.

Chapter 4 – The Hotel Room

Watson settled down in his bed, ready to meet whatever dreams life threw at him. Watson wished for dream. That was why he left the flat, because ever since he died, Watson had experienced nothing but nightmares; visions of pulsating blood and screams, the laugh of Moriaty and the final goodbye of Sherlock. That was all Watson saw every time he closed his eyes, it was enough to send a man crazy.

He had slept un-disturbed for two hours before he was disturbed by the sound of knocking. Very slowly, Watson walked to the door and answered it. The brightness of the corridor bled into his dark room, Watson then took part in the short lived conversation that would change his life forever.

There was a man on the other side of the door. The man took Watson's arms and gave one a very firm handshake; he then released both arms and asked. "Are you John Watson?"

He was confronted by a well built and blonde haired man. Scars covered his face, obviously meaning that he had obviously cut his face shaving (multiple times). The dirt under his nails implied that he had a labour job, probably a menial position as well; ha was most likely a mechanic. This was again obvious to the amount of oil stains on his clothing. He looked like a threat, and judging by the reddish brown stains all over him, he was obviously dangerous.

But Watson did not notice this after all because even fully awake, he wasn't Sherlock Holmes. He didn't deduce, that wasn't his job. Rubbing his eyes , he answered the man in a quizzical manner. "Yes"

"That's good then" he said with a look of glee on his face.

Watson started to feel more drowsy than he should have been. His vision was becoming blurred. "Why…what…" he couldn't get his words out properly. He fell forwards , the man caught him.

"Well , if you aren't Dr . John Watson-" the man reached to under John's arm , near his armpit and yanked something out with a groan. "-then I just injected some random guy with a knock out drug."

John's vision became clouded around the needle in front of his face. Before John fell into a deep , dark sleep , he slurred out , "…not…again!" and with that he closed his eyes and the world faded into darkness.

Chapter 5 – London Docks

Watson's eyes began to slowly open; the strain of opening them was too much, so he kept them closed for a little while longer. After about thirty seconds he tried again, his eyes burned but he needed to examine his surroundings and his bindings and he also needed to formulate a plan of escape. But all of these were impossible to do, as the room was pitch black and the only source of light was from the moonlight creeping in through the cracks in the blood splattered windows.

Watson sighed. "Great! The one time I need Sherlock."

"You know…I've always admired you!" The voice came from the darkness; it obviously belonged to the blonde assailant who had injected him without him noticing. Watson struggled against his bonds; he had noticed that he was standing (sort of). His feet were not touching the floor, he was obviously elevated at least half a foot off the ground but he could tell he was in an upright position.

The man came out from his hiding place and continued his admiration of . "I admired or rather still admire the fact that … an accomplished military doctor such as yourself, associated with that, monstrosity."

"Monstrosity?" Watson continued to struggle.

"Sherlock Holmes, of course." He said with a smirk on his face.

"Sherlock … Holmes … is not … a monstrosity!" John argued while struggling against his bonds.

"Don't you mean was not?"

John looked up and down , his binding were metal shackles bolted into the floor and ceiling.

"Great!" he murmured under his breath.

"Have you noticed my breadcrumbs?"

Watson gave up struggling , he had eventually deduced that it was useless. After he had discovered this fact , his attention was drawn back to the 'breadcrumbs'.

"Breadcrumbs?"

"You know , 'the twisted killer has struck again , bodies wrapped like ribbons on presents' , you know , that sort of thing."

"That was you?" Watson questioned.

"Yes , it was to get your attention. I thought if I got the attention of Sherlock Holmes' PA then I would be in the good books with my boss ; but , oh no , I have to apparently kill you to get a recommendation to go in the books. So I'm afraid for you , this is the end of the road."

The man moved closer to Watson now , brandishing a knife in his left hand, it glistened in the moonlight. The man's eyes now pulsating with pure hatred and excitement. struggled at his bonds yet again , it was useless. He was dead. Watson didn't try to distract the man or even delay him , he knew it wouldn't work (working with Sherlock had taught him that).

The man lifted the glistening silver knife (which had obviously killed many) and levelled it above his head. Watson closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable end. The crazed man pulled the knife back and with an immense amount of strength forced , where it collided with … another hand.

Another figure in the darkness had crept in while the man was taunting Watson. The mysterious figure grabbed the assailant's hand, holding the knife and thrust it back into his face. It collided with an immense amount of force, knocking the sense out of the assailant. With that, the mysterious figure swept him off his feet with a round kick and the man crumbled to the floor.

The figure grabbed for the keys on the man's belt and began to unchain . He fell to the floor and stood amazed as the stranger and the assailant battled it out. The fight came to a grizzly end when the assailant loomed over the mysterious figure.

"How'd you know we were here?" the assailant demanded.

"It's called … observing-" the mysterious figure sounded familiar to Watson, but the face was covered and the voice was muffled. The figure thrust his fist into the blonde man's diaphragm, he groaned and toppled over. He grabbed for the knife, but the figure got it first and with one mighty burst of power, thrust the knife into the man's chest. He was dead within seconds "—try it sometime!"

The figure stood up and brushed himself off and without saying a word disappeared through the door from which he came. Watson quickly followed.

"Hey!" Watson called out.

The figure turned. He was wearing a long a long navy blue trench coat (which looked familiar to him) and a hood and mask.

"How did you find us?" Watson was curious.

The figure walked towards Watson until they were about two metres apart. "It was one of the first things I ever told you John. You must observe everything , even if you don't think it's important … because one day it could save your life." (That voice was killing him , he knew that he knew it – but who?)

"How do you know me? Who are you?"

"Oh John , you always were pathetic at deducing … even the simplest of things."

And with that the figure removed his hood and mask to reveal a young man , with dark curly hair and an untouched face … the face of Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
